


A Devil On Your Back

by branwyn



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcoholism, Douglas Whump, Douglas backstory, Douglas has no idea how much of a BAMF he is, Gen, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, at least it ends in hugs?, bad memories, but Martin does, death of a child, exploitation of children, falling off the wagon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas isn't a good man, except when it counts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Devil On Your Back

People don't often ask Douglas questions like, _why did you become an alcoholic?_ Most people wouldn't dare. He's a friendly chap, always ready with a helping hand--particularly when the person he's extending the hand to is likely to return the favor in a massive way--but his manner is not one that invites liberties. And the people who would have had a right to ask, like his third wife, who'd married him despite his history--well, they tended not to care very much. Probably that should have told him something about Helena, if he'd been thinking it through at the time.

Martin, however, is in something of a class all by himself. More than a co-worker; possibly a friend, although that words suggests more equality than really exists between them. In a way, Martin feels more like family than anything else. Someone to whom Douglas is bound by indissoluble ties, whether he likes it or not. Martin is prissy, brittle, often infuriating, and yet--trustworthy. One of an exceedingly small number of people in Douglas's life who can be counted on not to press an advantage _too_ hard against him. 

And sometimes secrets need to be spoken. The therapist he'd seen for three visits when he was first sobering up had told him that, and Douglas is prepared to concede she might have had a point. They tended to take on monstrous proportions when kept in the dark too long. And Douglas has enough trouble sleeping as it is. So when Martin asks him the question that nobody ever asks him, he makes a genuine effort to answer.

"There was an incident," he says, to Martin's questioning look. They're sitting at the bar in a hotel lobby in Miami, their backs turned to the television blaring a loud game of American football. Tedious, noisy stuff. "A number of years ago. Exceedingly ugly." He flicks a finger against the rim of his tonic and lime. "More than ugly. The sort of thing…there really isn't a word to describe." He smiles. "Unspeakable covers it, I think."

Martin looks troubled. Douglas can tell that he wants to ask for more details, but he doesn't press. He has rather nice instincts, for a boy his age. "And you began drinking to…forget?"

"Yes." Douglas shrugs and smiles, turning a bit on his stool to face away from the shelves of bottles behind the bar. "You could say that."

"Right." Martin shifts uncomfortably. "Did it work?"

"Now that you mention it…no."

That's all that's said about it, at the time. Douglas thinks that's all he intends to say about it, period. But then Martin excuses himself to go back to their room, and Douglas, alone in the bar, discovers that he has unstoppered something that won't be shoved back into the bottle.

Call it his conscience.

Call it the four tumblers of Talisker that end up gliding down his throat as sweet and smoky as the first wood fires of autumn.

*

Douglas Richardson is twenty-five. Handsome, dashing in his brand new uniform, clever and hard enough to take all comers. He makes the right sort of friends with ease, charms the prettiest women into his bed, pockets his exorbitant salary with the satisfaction of a nascent sky god receiving no more than his due. He's the newest FO to be employed by Helios, a small but ludicrously profitable charter airline that supports its pilots in a style to which the young bloods of Air England can only dream of aspiring. He doesn't question the luck which landed him in his present position a mere three years into his career. He may not have years of experience under his belt but he clearly possesses other qualities which the good people of Helios had seen fit to recognize. 

Unlike Dorothy, his soon-to-be-ex wife of two years. Or his father, whose entire purpose in life is to be perpetually unimpressed by his eldest son. Fuck the lot of them, Douglas thinks. He believes firmly in his own talent for being, at every moment of his life, precisely where he ought to be--which, at the moment, is chatting up a stewardess from Air France in the lobby of a five star hotel in Bangkok, the morning before a twelve hour flight to the US.

Julian, his captain, catches his eye from across the room and lifts a glass in mock salute, with a nod to the lithe brunette hanging on Douglas's arm. Douglas grins back at him, already enjoying the prospect of bragging about the night's conquest over the course of the long flight to come. Julian Barrow is fifty, the CEO's brother-in-law, silver-haired and sophisticated. If Douglas is pulling at the same rate as Julian a quarter-century from now then his own middle age will be nothing to dread. 

"I do hope you'll manage at least a bit of sleep," Julian murmurs, catching him on his way out of the room. "Long flight tomorrow, very important client, etcetera, etcetera."

"Of course," Douglas assures him. He already knows that tomorrow's flight is important. They're ferrying an enormously wealthy businessman and his three young children to Washington, D.C. The children have never been on a plane before, and they're terrified of flying, apparently. Satin-smooth takeoffs and eiderdown landings are indicated, which is fine by Douglas--he is terribly good, after all. "I'll be keen and fit, you'll see. Just...putting a bit of spring in my step."

"So it would seem," said Julian. He looks amused, but there is an uncharacteristically serious note to his voice. "Just as well. There's an absolutely staggering bonus riding on this, if all goes well."

"Then go well it shall," Douglas says. "No worries, Captain. I have simply the most enormous luck."

"Of course you do," says Julian soothingly, patting his shoulder with an indulgent smile. "You're here, aren't you?" 

Douglas had laughed, because of course it was nothing but the truth.

*

Douglas doesn't often run into anyone these days who knew him when he was a young man. Only his brother, really, who gets in touch from time to time under the pretense of a desire to catch up, but almost always he's actually working up to asking Douglas for money. He'd thrown his back out about ten years ago working for the Royal Mail and his pension is pitiful. Douglas is thinking about budgeting a regular support check into his finances to save them both the embarrassment of those phone calls. If he does that, though, he might never hear from his brother again, and he's…well. Family is important. And Douglas is lonely, though he wouldn't be caught dead admitting to it.

On the rare occasions he does bump into an old acquaintance from his Air England days (there's no one from Helios left to run into, which is just as well) there's always more than a hint of pity in the hearty, slightly-too-careless way they offer to pay for his tonic-and-limes. He can practically read their minds: _poor chap, fallen down in the world, God save me from going the same way._ It grates, to be certain, but Douglas smiles and laughs at their jokes because if there's anything he enjoys, it's knowing he's got a secret advantage over people who attempt to condescend to him. 

The advantage, simply put, is that he _likes_ the job he's got now. If he were a first officer for a larger company like Cal Air at his age, the humiliation would be pretty keen. But he likes being the only first officer at MJN, because everyone who works there knows the score: he is the better pilot, he is the person who gets them out of their scrapes, and he's at liberty to do pretty much whatever he can get away with--and he can get away with a lot more as first officer than he ever could as captain. Because as annoying a captain as Martin can be, he would be an utter nightmare of a first officer. He'd never take his eyes off Douglas; he'd be studying and scrutinizing and trying to figure out how to be like Douglas when he grew up, and Douglas would feel grudgingly obligated to set some kind of example. As it is, Martin is so distracted by command responsibilities, and so invested in the perpetual struggle to be taken seriously, that Douglas can really do as he likes.

He also likes the fact that Martin's never going to surprise him. That Carolyn may be hard as nails but is fundamentally decent and honest. That Arthur is the sort of person rarely seen on earth since the fall of man. MJN Air is too small a company to be keeping secrets, which means that Douglas can relax. 

Douglas is old enough to have learned the value of unvalued things. He thinks it's a lesson that comes to everyone at some point in their lives, and it happened to him earlier than most.

*

Martin is in the shower when he returns to their room. Douglas isn't quite wobbling on his feet, he's much too practiced for that, but it has been a very long time since his last drink. Four whiskies would have just got him out the door on the way to the pub eleven years ago, and he isn't completely hammered even now, but he's feeling it. And he's not going to be able to hide it from Martin. But then, he doesn't want to. That's why he's here.

Douglas shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it onto the bed. His tie follows. He feels flushed and hot, and the steam from the shower won't help. He unbuttons his collar and rolls his cuffs up to his elbow, and then he hammers on the bathroom door.

"Martin," he bellows. "Martin, it's me, I'm coming in."

He doesn't wait for Martin's baffled protest before flinging the door open and sitting down on the lid of the closed toilet. He keeps his eyes decently averted from the skinny shadow of Martin behind the mostly opaque shower curtain.

"What the hell are you doing, Douglas?" Martin pulls the curtain aside just enough to poke his head out. His hair, plastered to his forehead, is oddly dark-looking when saturated. "I'll only be another minute, can't you wait?"

Douglas rests his elbows on his knees and stares at the floor. The blue and white tiles and the side of the tub are beaded with condensation. If he's sweating, it won't show. He can feel the frown that Martin directs at him when he doesn't answer, but he can't quite lift his head to meet it. 

"Are you all right?" says Martin a moment later, in quite a different tone.

"Finish your shower," says Douglas. He doesn't know quite why he thinks that being here with Martin will keep him from going back down to the bar and ordering six more drinks. He's not even sure what difference it would make if he _did_ finish off the bottle tonight. One drink is all it takes to fall off the wagon, and he's well past that already. It might even be better if he did go and give himself alcohol poisoning; the price he'd pay in the morning would probably be the most effective deterrent against a repeat performance he could hope for. This is no time to start deceiving himself that he's capable of moderation.

Still, he waits. Somehow, the utter peculiarity of sitting on a toilet listening to the water crash against the porcelain as Martin rinses shampoo from his absurd hair restrains him as effectively as a door locked from the outside. When the water is shut off, Douglas pulls himself from his numb reverie long enough to locate a towel and the dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. He stands to pass them to Martin over the top of the curtain. After a moment, Martin steps out of the shower, visibly damp and swathed in blue terrycloth. He looks at Douglas with a searching frown.

"Are you all right?" he says. "Well, no, obviously you're not, but I just saw you half an hour ago and you were fine. Did something happen after I left the bar?"

Douglas huffs a small laugh. His head is spinning, and there's a prickling sensation between his eyes. "You might say that."

Martin continues to look confused. Then, suddenly, his eyes widen. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed."

"You…" Martin's face screws up, like whatever he's about to say is painful to him. "You had a drink?"

"I did." That is a lie, he did not have _a drink_. Astonishing how fast one bad habit leads him straight back into all the others. "Or rather, I had four drinks. And since I was bound to order a fifth, and probably a sixth, and however many more it took before they cut me off or I passed out…"

"You came here." 

He doesn't quite know what to make of Martin's quiet, almost wondering tone. Oddly enough, the fact that he doesn't sound accusatory is the very thing that activates the guilt he's been holding at bay so far. "Quite so," he manages to say, without nearly as much of an edge as he intends. "Apologies for disturbing you during your ablutions."

"It's fine." Martin looks at him, then looks down at the towel in his hands. He hangs it over the shower rod, spread out so it will dry. He lays a hand on Douglas's shoulder. "I'm glad you did. Honestly. Let's…here, come with me."

It says something about Douglas's state of mind that allowing Martin to guide him into the other room and settle him in a chair actually seems to take the edge off the misery building to a sharp point inside him, like an arrow lodged in his ribcage. Martin pours him a glass of water and sets it down by his hand, then starts to boil water for tea. Douglas doesn't particularly want tea, but neither does he have the energy to tell Martin not to make it.

"I'm going to…" Martin gives him a worried look. "Will you be all right if I go and get dressed? I'll just be a minute."

"Of course, Martin."

"Are you sure?" There's a sharper note in Martin's voice now. "Are you going to be here when I get back?"

"Yes," Douglas bellows, exasperated. But Martin doesn't wince, or look angry. He just nods once, acceptingly, then carries his flight bag back into the bathroom. Douglas notices that he doesn't shut the door all the way.

The water's boiled by the time Martin comes out again, dressed in plaid shorts and an ancient, threadbare white t-shirt. Douglas watches in silence as Martin pours the water over the teabags, then sets the timer on his watch so that they'll steep for three minutes precisely. Not until the watch beeps, and Martin's removed the tea bags from the mugs and carried them both over to the table, do either of them speak again.

"It was just a lapse," Martin says, which takes Douglas rather off guard. "It happens. It doesn't mean you'll drink tomorrow."

"Yes, _I_ know that." He'd really expected a lecture, not this seamless absorption of new information followed by acceptance and understanding. "I confess that I'm a little surprised you do."

"Alcoholism is pretty common amongst airline pilots. I read up on it."

Douglas wants to laugh or roll his eyes, because, _honestly_. Except that Martin is blushing slightly, which means he's probably lying about something. He obviously does know a thing or two about being a drunk, and he can't be one himself or Douglas would certainly have noticed by now. Which must mean he's lying about why he did the reading. Any other night, Douglas would be furious to think that Martin had prepared himself to deal with the fallout on the inevitable day Douglas's self-control broke, but righteous fury from him would only smack of hypocrisy now. Martin's never said anything about it before, so it clearly wasn't an attempt to patronize him; it was just Martin's awkward way of trying to be a friend. Douglas is in no shape to be grateful for that right now, but one day he might manage it.

"You know that you need to talk about it." Martin nudges the untouched tea a little closer to Douglas. "I suppose you might not want to talk to me, but I…I could go and get Carolyn, if you want?"

"Yes," Douglas drawls. "Carolyn, who pays me to fly her aeroplane, is certainly at the very top of the list of people I was hoping would find out about this, just above a CAA spot-checker. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to phone one?" 

"Yes, all right." Martin flushes. "You'll just have to settle for me, then."

He sounds dejected, and Douglas repents his ungracious tone just a bit. "It's fine, Martin. I'd rather tell you than most people, though God knows why you'd want to hear it."

"Don't be stupid," says Martin immediately. "You're my friend, of course I want to help. That's why I asked you earlier how it started, because I--" He stops abruptly, looking stricken. "Oh, God. Was it--me? I asked you why you started drinking, and you said it was to forget, but that must have reminded you, and--"

"You give yourself far too much credit. You're not responsible for my chucking eleven years' sobriety out the window." Douglas forces himself to take a mouthful of the scalding tea. It burns hotter than the Talisker, and pretty effectively removes the lingering taste of whiskey from his mouth. "I did, possibly, fall into a mood whilst contemplating certain melancholy recollections, but I know better than to let it get to me." He sighs, feeling his mouth twist in a bitter smile. "Just a moment of weakness, I suppose."

Martin's face screws up again in that way that makes him look impossibly young--far too young to be the recipient of the awful confidences Douglas proposes to lay on him. But he'd been younger than Martin when it all happened. And if this is a lesson everyone has to learn, maybe at least Martin can learn from Douglas's example, instead of by more brutal methods.

"I qualified as a pilot at 22, after finishing university and faffing about for a year or so while I tried to decide what I was going to do with my life," Douglas tells him, leaning back in his chair. "I was hired straight out of flight school by a small charter company. Nothing in the least like MJN. They were small because they were exclusive. They catered to only the wealthiest and most powerful clients, and I made more my first year as a first officer than I make now in two years with MJN. And that was in 1981, I'm not even counting inflation. We were the pilots everyone wanted to be. Back then, Air England couldn't have tempted me away with anything less than a captaincy at 25."

Martin is obviously trying to listen as a sympathetic friend to what even he can guess will turn out to be a rather ugly story, but he's having a hard time concealing his naked envy. "You must have been really good," he says, sounding wistful. "I mean, you are good, but at that age…"

"That was certainly what I thought." Douglas stares down at his tea, too dark a brown to even pretend at being whiskey. "Later, it became apparent that the 'special qualities' I'd been hired for had far less to do with a natural facility for flying planes and far more to do with the fact I was judged unlikely to ask questions. Not when my ego was being so thoroughly catered to."

"Oh," says Martin, eyes widening in realization.

"Precisely," says Douglas. "Oh."

*

The morning they fly out of Bangkok, Douglas reaches the airfield precisely on time without a minute to spare. It's what Julian expects of him, and Douglas knows better than to disappoint. As first officer, he is expected to be punctual, to file the flight plan and see to any last minute difficulties that need smoothing out, so that his captain is free to arrive half an hour late, slide into his seat, and prepare for take off without a second thought. Douglas thinks this is only fair; when he's a captain, he'll expect the same from his FO.

Bafflingly, however, Julian is already at the airfield when Douglas arrives. From a distance, he sees the distinctive silhouette of his captain escorting a man and two children up the stairs into the plane. Douglas had been certain there were supposed to be three children, but it hardly matters. He's more interested in the fact that the cargo hold door is open, even though there are no ground crew to be seen in the vicinity. It's very unlike Julian to take sole responsibility for handling a clients' luggage. Even if their client is the sort who likes to see the pilots behaving like servants, it doesn't explain why Julian didn't just leave it for Douglas to do.

He doesn't ask questions, however, because Julian's manner toward him that morning is a little odd. Nothing Douglas can put his finger on, but his demeanor forbids questions and Douglas knows when to toe the line. Anyway, he's probably just reading too much into it. It's not as though Julian's shed his customary professional camaraderie. And the slight bite of impatience in his tone when Douglas returns from doing the walk-round is still more restrained than what other captains have put him through. 

He doesn't introduce Douglas to the passengers, though, which is more than unusual--it's a breach of Helios company protocol. When Douglas mentions it, jokingly, _(Did Antoinette leave a mark or something? Afraid I'll look indecent in front of the kiddies?)_ Julian only smiles tightly and tells him not to worry, he'll have his share of the bonus either way. Which is reassuring, but doesn't entirely ease the inexplicable niggle at the back of Douglas's head, telling him that something is off.

Julian is a great talker during flights, and as the hours stretch on his easy patter relaxes Douglas to the point of nearly believing he'd imagined the tension he'd sensed at the beginning of the flight. Until a mid-air hydraulics failure forces them into a diversion over southern France, and Julian goes into a fit of swearing hysterics so intense that Douglas tentatively offers to take the landing. He's astonished, but relieved, when Julian sighs and rubs his brow and says, "Yes, I think you'd better."

"You sure everything's all right?" Douglas asks, once the post-landing checks are complete. "You seem a bit…blue today, if you don't mind my saying so, Captain."

"I'm fine," says Julian, wearily. "But the client is going to be miffed, and I detest having to explain these things to civilians. They do over-react."

"Well, I'd be happy to do the talking, if you like?"

Julian looks as though he's going to say no at first, but then he nods. "You go back, I'll have a word with the engineers."

Douglas is expecting the worst when he walks back into the cabin to introduce himself and explain that the delay is necessary but temporary. He anticipates impatient shouting from a man who expects his money to protect him from the petty inconveniences of every day life. 

What he finds is very different.

Their client is a tall, thin man with a long face and slicked-back blonde hair. He's sitting in the second row of seats between two children, one a girl of approximately nine years, the other a boy who looks closer to six. Douglas blinks at the sight of them, first because none of them have unbuckled their seat belts, and second because…well, he's a modern sort of chap, families comes in all varieties these days, but the client's children look nothing like him. It isn't just that he's white, while the girl has extremely dark skin and the boy is…Thai, possibly, he can't tell just by looking. It's that the man is wearing a five thousand pound suit, while the children are wearing dirty t-shirts that are much too large for them. And the man is manicured and pomaded, though neither of the children look like they've bathed recently.

What really clinches it for Douglas, though, is that neither of the children will look at him. Douglas doesn't fly children terribly often, but when he does the children are usually restless and curious and demanding. Not…quiet and timid. He'd been told the children were afraid of flying, but if this man were really their father, surely they'd be looking at him for reassurance? They aren't, though. They aren't even looking at each other.

"Hello," Douglas says, trying not to stare too obviously. The man is watching him with a sharp, focused expression. "Captain Barrow has asked me to extend his apologies for the delay. We've had a very minor equipment malfunction, but the chaps on the ground should have us sorted out and back on our way in no time."

"How long?" says the man curtly. His accent is difficult to distinguish--a mixture of various European inflections.

"Oh, within the hour, I expect." Douglas hesitates. "Is there anything I can bring you? You're welcome to step outside the plane for a breath of fresh air, if you like."

"We don't need anything," says the man, in the same dismissive monotone. "You can go."

*

"Douglas…" Martin is very still in his chair, his long thin fingers white-knuckled on the armrests. "That's--are you saying--"

It is a very good thing he decided to have this conversation here in the room. If they were still at the bar, he doubts even Martin could stop him ordering another drink. "The answer to whatever you're thinking is probably yes."

"It's just, it sounds like…" Martin chews a bit on his lower lip. "The way you're describing the children, and the man. It's practically the textbook checklist from the CAA manual on how to spot human trafficking."

Martin, confirmed lover of manuals and handbooks that he is, would know better than Douglas. "It probably is," he says agreeably. "But the thing about having been a pilot thirty years ago, is that at the time, most manuals on the subject were yet to be written."

"No, of course." Martin's looking at Douglas with a deep worried-looking furrow across his brow. "How--I mean, did you know? At the time? Or…"

"At the time, I didn't really know anything, except that something was very wrong."

"What…what did you do?"

"Well, it seemed at first that the obvious thing was to report my suspicions to Captain Barrow. Only, once I started thinking it over…"

"He knew." Martin's voice is very small, almost like he's hoping he won't be heard, but there isn't a shred of doubt in it. "He must have known."

Douglas heaves a sigh. "I didn't see that, at first." He wants to say that it's simply because he didn't have the benefit of Martin's training; in the late seventies and early eighties, no one in the aviation industry was thinking especially hard about being _responsible global citizens_ , or whatever ridiculous phrase the CAA used in that particular manual. But deep down, he knows that his reluctance to pick up the clues had a lot to do with those "special qualities" he'd been hired for. His own self-satisfaction and smugness had blinkered his common sense. Martin…is a different sort. He observes things from a perspective Douglas has never been privy to. It isn't that Martin's sharper than he is, exactly, but Martin is…little. A little man who's never been top of the food chain in his life. He would have looked at those children and seen the fear that radiated from them, and he wouldn't have doubted.

"Fortunately," he says, "or unfortunately, something else happened, which gave me a much clearer idea of what I was dealing with."

*

He disembarks the plane with a heavy, sour feeling in his stomach. 

It's an odd thing. Prior to this, Douglas has always felt that if the CEO of Helios had seen fit to grace him with a captain's bars at the tender age of 25, he would have been well up to the challenge. He pays Julian due deference for his age and experience, of course, but he's never felt especially reliant upon his captain for guidance, never received an order from him that was out of keeping with what he himself would have done in the same circumstances. Just now, however, he is desperately grateful not to be the man in charge. He hasn't the faintest idea what to do, and the only thing keeping his composure intact is the assurance that _Julian will know what to do_.

They've landed in a town so small that it hasn't got a proper airport, just a grotty little airfield with a few engineers on standby. Thirty years later, he won't even remember the name of the place. The sense of isolation increases his anxiety. If they'd carried on to DC, surely someone else would have noticed that something was off, and done whatever needed to be done about it. Here, it's just Douglas and Julian, and if Douglas can't get Julian to see things his way, it'll just be Douglas. He doesn't like that idea at all.

Outside, there are no engineers milling about that he can see, nor is there any sign of Julian. The cargo hold door, however, has been unlocked and opened slightly, which is only odd because the passenger couldn't have asked Julian to fetch any of his belongings to him. Curiosity distracts him from his desire to find Julian posthaste. He opens the door a little higher and steps inside.

The first thing he notices is that the hold is heated, which it shouldn't be; there's nothing on the cargo manifest requiring a climate controlled storage environment. 

The second thing he notices is that, of the three items of luggage in the otherwise empty hold, one of them--a medium sized steamer trunk with a lock--has been pulled away from the wall slightly. Douglas takes a few steps forward, not entirely certain what he expects to find.

When the trunk _moves_ , Douglas nearly wets himself. He does swear, loudly, jumping back by a step. He has so little understanding of what he's seeing that he's on the verge of convincing himself he hadn't seen it at all. But then it happens again, and this time he realizes that something--he's trying very hard not to think, _someone_ \--is beating against the underside of the lid.

His pulse is pounding like the tide against the insides of his ears, but his hands are oddly still as he kneels down beside the trunk and removes a small penknife from his pocket. He's not Raffles or anything, but he can pick a cheap lock, although it takes longer than it ought to before the tumblers fall into place and the heavy bottom of the mechanism swings loose. He threads the hook out of the latch and pulls up on lid.

He doesn't quite scream, but it's a near thing.

A girl--8 or 9 years old, with fair skin and large dark eyes--screws her face up against the light. She's lying on the floor of the trunk. Her hands and feet are bound with strips of rag, and there's flaking blood and darkening bruises across her knuckles, like she's been beating against the lid--or against something--over a long period of time. She blinks a few times and peers at him hazily through narrowed eyelids. Douglas can see her dilated pupils, and he just bets that her pulse is abnormally low as well. Drugged, to keep her quiet, although not quiet enough. She's been fighting whatever's happened to her, fighting hard enough that her… _captor_ judged it worth the risk of stuffing her into a box and flying her two thousand miles in the cargo hold rather than trying to string her along on a leash like the other two. Maybe the other children had fought as well, until they saw what happened to her. Maybe they'd only agreed to be quiet in return for not being tied up and locked in a _fucking box_ … 

He realizes he's staring--just, sitting back on his heels and _staring_ at the girl while she lies there, tied up and thinking God knows what of him. The medical training he'd abandoned suggests he should keep her still until he can assess just how badly she's hurt, but the part of him that had once been a powerless child knows that first and foremost she needs to feel safe. Although how on earth he's supposed to manage that under the circumstances, he doesn't know. He's all too aware that as of this moment, neither of them are safe at all.

"Can you understand me?" says Douglas, hearing the tremor in his voice. This won't do, he's got to have a clear head. If he knows anything now, it's that he is completely alone in this. Julian had loaded the cargo this morning, before Douglas arrived. Julian _knows_ about the girl, he was obviously just here to check on her--not out of any human feeling, but because getting an uncooperative child through customs would be a walk in the park compared to doing the same with the body of a dead child. Julian hadn't wanted their client to scarper and leave them to deal with a corpse, that's all. 

The girl doesn't respond to his question, so he repeats it in Italian, French, Spanish, and German. She continues to blink at him, and just when Douglas is about to despair, she answers him in French. "Yes, I understand."

"Thank fuck," he says to himself, in English. Then, to her: "Are you hurt? And are there other children besides the two with the man?" He's thinking about those other two trunks, and calculating how much time he has to pick those locks before Julian returns.

The girl shakes her head and continues to stare at him. Douglas is ashamed of how much he wants to simply shake answers out of her. Perhaps she can sense his fear and frustration; probably he wouldn't want to talk to him either, if he were in her place. 

He reaches for her hands, and she shrinks away from him. _Lout_ , he thinks to himself furiously. He shows her the knife and nods to her bindings. "I promise that I won't hurt you," he says. "I'm going to cut the ropes."

She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't cringe when he reaches for her again. Carefully, touching her as little as possible, he saws through the mangled, dirty rags binding her wrists, then frees her feet. She pushes herself upright, and the nausea he's been holding at bay nearly overwhelms him. There are dark, swelling bruises covering the left side of her face. It's a miracle that she's conscious at all.

"We have to go," he says. "Can you walk?" He can carry her with no problem--she's so thin, barely more than a bundle of bones. But he can guess that she probably doesn't want to be closer to a strange man than necessary.

"Go where?" she says.

"Somewhere safe," he promises, desperately hoping that he won't prove a liar. "Police. We'll call the police."

"They'll lock me up." She doesn't sound especially worried about this, but she does seem to grow smaller, like she's trying to make herself disappear.

"Is that what they told you?" Douglas keeps the disgust off his face with an effort; he doesn't want her to think it's meant for her. "Don't go to the police, they'll only do bad things to you?"

She nods, once, a brief jerk of the head. Her eyes fix on him in mute inquiry.

"I…" He has no idea what sort of assurance she'll believe. "I won't let them, all right? If…if they try, we'll just run away again."

Douglas doesn't wait for an answer. He holds his breath, sends up a prayer, and grasps her elbows, hauling her to her feet. She stumbles against him--of course, he's an idiot, her feet will be numb from the ropes--but she doesn't fight him. He can smell blood and urine, but he holds her tight against his side, supporting her as she climbs out of the trunk. Douglas has never been so hyper-alert to every noise and shift of air current before. He's tensed for Julian to make an appearance, or for the client to lose patience and come see about the delay. He has a decent idea of what would happen to him then, and it doesn't bode well for his future. He prompts the girl to lean against the wall for a moment as he closes the lid of the trunk again and fits the lock back into place. When they leave the cargo hold and step blinking back into the sunlight, he carefully pulls the hold door to exactly the position it was in when he came across it a few minutes ago.

Now they're standing right out in the middle of an open airfield with nothing to hide them. It's cold, but Douglas is sweating like he's been playing rugby in July. He's never felt like this before. Somehow, without having the faintest idea what he should do, he knows precisely what must be done. Survival instincts evolved into the human race over millennia are slowly hijacking all his higher brain functions.

"Walk in front of me and don't look back," he tells the girl. "If the man is looking out the window, he'll only see me. I'm big, so you'll be hidden. Right?"

She obeys him with a mute lack of resistance that doesn't speak of trust, so much as an awareness that she lacks other options. He isn't insulted; he thinks she's right not trust him. He hasn't said anything like, _you'll be safe,_ or _don't worry, I'll protect you_ , because he knows all too well that he's in no position to promise her anything. They might both be dead before the end of the day. He doubts Julian has the nerve to kill anyone, but he doubts Julian would kick up much fuss about someone else doing the honors. And the man in the plane wouldn't be in this…business, whatever you'd call it, if he didn't rate human lives pretty cheaply. God, if they're caught, and he's murdered, people might even think _Douglas_ was the one who'd stolen the girl, only to be killed while trying to sell her off or something. For some reason, that idea frightens him more than dying. He'd never thought of himself as being especially preoccupied with the idea of personal honor, but he could wish for something better than to be unjustly remembered as the lowest form of human scum.

Douglas makes himself keep to a normal walking pace as they start across the tarmac together, and the girl too seems to understand that running will only draw attention to them. He touches her back lightly once or twice, to steer her in the right direction. He's calculated that their best chance of salvation lies in getting to the airfield manager's office, where there will be a phone, and hopefully a door that locks. They're so far from any major city that he's not putting huge stock in the assistance of the police, but he'll take any help he can get right now. 

When they pass through the door of the hangar, Douglas nearly freezes. Because he can hear Julian's voice, ringing out from behind a partial obstruction of flats and forklifts. He sounds like he's arguing, and when he's answered in guttural, native-sounding French, Douglas guesses he's haggling with the engineer. 

Douglas rests his hands on the girl's shoulders. She's silent, but as soon as he touches her he can feel how violently she's trembling. She's sensed the precariousness of their position; they're going to have to walk out in plain sight of the other two men. Douglas is counting on Julian being too distracted to pay him any attention, but adrenaline is skittering through his veins, harsher and more energizing than a line of coke. He pulls the girl against the side of him that faces away from Julian, and gives her shoulder a little squeeze. It's the best he can do by way of reassurance.

"Fast, but not too fast," he tells her. "See that door, with the light? Come on."

Douglas doesn't let himself look anywhere but straight ahead as they walk. If Julian spots them, he doesn't want to know about it; it'll only break his nerve. Julian's too far away to catch up to them before they reach the office, and if it came right down to a physical altercation Douglas would undoubtedly win, but he doesn't want it to get to that point. He doesn't want to be a damned hero. He just wants to make this whole bloody thing somebody else's problem as fast as possible, and hopefully walk away with some shred of a career intact. Not…not with Helios, he sees that now, but if he's very, very clever and plays his cards right, he'll get one hell of a severance package and a glowing recommendation out of them when it's all over. Then, when his own future is nicely secured, he'll put the word out and watch the company fold on itself. God knows how long Julian's been running this little operation under all their noses; it'll no more than serve them right.

"Almost there," says Douglas. "Just…keep quiet and let me do the talking at first. You're doing really well, you're being very brave. Your parents would be proud of you."

The girl's silence is resounding, and it crosses Douglas's mind that for all he knows, her parents were how she ended up in this predicament. He's heard of such things. He pushes the thought away and flings the door of the manager's office open, scooting them through and shutting it behind them quickly.

When Douglas claps eyes on the figure behind the desk, his immediate thought is, _thank God, it's a woman, she can handle the kids_. Not that she looks especially maternal. She's rather well dressed for the manager of such a provincial airfield; her suit's Chanel, if he doesn't miss his guess, and she's got sharp dark eyes that peer at him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. But she only studies him for a second or two before her eyes light on the girl, and the bruise on the girl's face. Her nostrils flare, and she looks up at him again, waiting.

"Bit of a situation," he tells her in English. He can't handle a foreign language right now. His head is too muddled with the hopefully-not-premature relief of having made it to the office without being clubbed across the back of the head. "I just discover this girl locked in the hold of our plane. She was imprisoned there by our passenger, but my captain certainly knows about it. So you'll need to call…everyone, really. Police, DGAC, the CAA, the works. I'd help, but you're the one behind the desk, and I think I may need to faint in a moment." He mops his brow with the cuff on his sleeve. "Oh, and there are two more children. Not locked in the hold, obviously, on the plane with our client. If Julian--Captain Barrow--gets the wind up, he may very well try to cut his losses and take off without me. Can I rely on you to keep that from happening?"

The manager blinks at him across the desk for a long moment before speaking, and even then she doesn't answer his question. "This is a very serious accusation you're making," she says. "Are you quite certain?"

Douglas looks down at the girl. He finds that his hands have cupped her shoulders. She's staring at the floor and her thin body trembles like a bird's under his grip. He steers her into a chair and she sits stiffly. He doesn't have the faintest idea what else to do for her.

He lifts his head to meet the manager's eyes. "Positive," he says. "Will you help us?"

The woman's nostrils flare. Then she opens the top drawer of her desk and takes out a revolver. She lays it down next to the phone. "I hope you locked the door behind you."

"I did." There's a sinking feeling in his stomach; he recognizes it as the certainty that he's about to do something incredibly stupid and quite against his own best interests. It was the same feeling he got when he realized he would have to tell Dorothy he wasn't going to be a doctor after all. Really, his life would be so much simpler if he just didn't give a damn what other people thought of him. "And you should lock it again as soon as I leave."

"You're going?"

"I think I have to." He pulls at his collar and gives her a weak imitation of the smile he reserves for attractive French women of a certain age. "Will you be all right on your own?"

"We'll be fine," she says, picking up the phone. "Try not to bleed on my tarmac."

Douglas lets himself out of the office without giving the girl so much as a backwards glance. The last thing he needs to think about is her dead, resigned expression, as though nothing he's done or is about to do will change the fact that she's already seen worse than he'll ever see in his life. When he hears the click of the bolt fastening behind him, he straightens his tie and walks up to Julian, who is standing at the door of the hangar and smoking a cigarette. He's staring at the engineers as they work on the plane, and he jumps when Douglas appears at his elbow.

"We have a problem," Douglas says, without preamble.

"Oh?" Julian looks pale, and the lines around his mouth and eyes seem to have sunk deeper into his flesh than is normal. "Client kicking up a fuss, is he? Perhaps I'd better have a word with him."

"Don't you bloody dare." His voice shakes; the strain of the last twenty minutes is catching up to him. Douglas wishes he were feeling something as energizing as self-righteousness, but he knows that it's mostly narcissistic outrage for having been dragged into something so ugly and complicated and potentially ruining without his consent. "I know what's going on, and I don't want to hear any of your excuses. I just want you to help me get those kids off the plane without spooking their handler. I want him right where the police can find him. They're already on their way."

Julian stares at him. Then, very deliberately, he drops the cigarette and grinds it under his foot. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"I got the girl out of the hold. Out of the fucking _box_ he put her into. The game's over, so don't bother trying to pretend this is anything but what it is. You've got exactly one chance to get out of this with any face left at all. Do the right thing, and I'll swear you had no idea what was happening. You can retire and no one will ever know."

"My boy." Julian's eyes turn flinty, but his tone is almost paternal. "You want to think about what you're doing. You're about to get in way over your head."

"If that's the alternative to wallowing in the muck with you and your kiddie sex-slaver pal, then I can't imagine anywhere else I'd rather be."

"Douglas." Julian straightens. He reaches one hand and tugs a bit at Douglas's lapel, straightening it, and though Douglas knows it can only be his imagination, he feels a chill emanating from the point of contact. "Let me explain a little something to you. About _where your paychecks have been coming from._ "

*

Martin slumps back in his chair with a long, miserable sounding groan. Douglas is strangely glad to hear it; he's long past the point where any such mundane expression can give him relief, but the story certainly deserves a groan, at the least.

"Let me guess," says Martin. "Everyone at Helios was in on it. That was why they were so…so rich, and so selective with their clients."

"And with the pilots they hired," Douglas agrees. "Later, I realized that trip was intended to be my--induction, so to speak. Carry it off under my nose, confront me with it afterwards, persuade me that if I went to the authorities I'd be implicated…and then dazzle with me the profits until I fell into line. I've no doubt it worked on others." He picks up his tea, gone cold by this point, and lifts it to hide his face. "Even now, I can't say with complete conviction that it wouldn't have worked on me."

" _No,_ Douglas." Martin reaches across the table and catches his wrist. "That--you can't--no. Just, no." His fingers tighten in a firm, oddly reassuring grip, and Douglas lets it warm him for a moment.

"It's good of you to say so." Douglas gives him a small smile. "But the man who sits before you now, and the man Helios hired for possessing 'special qualities' thirty years ago are two very different people. In fact, it's safe to say that for a number of different reasons, I would not be where I am now, if not for them."

Martin falls silent for a moment. He doesn't take his hand away, though, and Douglas doesn't have the heart to pull back.

"What happened to them?" he asks. "The children, and the…man. Did the police come?"

Douglas nods. "Yes," he says. "Eventually."

*

He's never hit anyone before in his life, but when his fist connects with the underside of Julian's jaw, it feels like some tiny corner of a world gone mad has just snapped back into alignment. He watches Julian's eyes roll back in his head, and he's shaking his hand out before Julian's finished falling to the floor. 

His options have just shrunk dramatically, but really, there were never many to begin with. He'd just needed to know where Julian stood to realize it. The important question now is whether the man in the plane is armed and how long he's willing to wait before he grows suspicious enough to investigate the delay for himself. He'll be able to see through the windows that the engineers have finished their work, so he'll be expecting them to take off soon.

Part of Douglas wants to leave Julian and the girl here in the custody of the airfield manager and her gun. He could get in the plane and fly the rest of them to Nice, where the authorities will be waiting when they disembark. He doesn't like the odds right now. Assuming their passenger isn't armed, Douglas might be able to take him in a fair fight, but so long as he's got the children, the risk is more than he's willing to undertake. He's not a bloody hostage negotiator. His training in these matters mostly involved repeated injunctions to remain calm and wait for help to arrive, and while he's sure the local gendarmerie will make for an inspiring sight when they ride up on their knackered steeds, there will be a tedious period of explanation and persuasion while he attempts to convince them that no, he isn't a power-crazed copilot attempting to wrest control of the plane from its rightful captain. Julian's current condition won't go very far toward establishing his credibility in that respect.

In the end, he can think of only one recourse, even though contemplating it makes him slightly sick. He returns to the manager's office, knocking and calling through the door, hoping she'll recognize his voice before she blows his head off through the glass. The door opens a moment later and she sticks her face through the gap, frowning.

"Well?" she says.

"How long before the police arrive?" 

"Half-hour, at the soonest. And I've radioed to DGAC and the American authorities. If you take off now, and the authorities will be waiting for you in DC. You can leave the girl with me. It might be your best shot."

"Ah." Douglas glances over his shoulder. "Small problem with that." He's not qualified to make the long haul flight to DC on his own, and Julian is clearly out of commission. He explains this to the manager briefly, and she looks past him to where Julian lies prone on the hangar floor.

"The man on the plane. Is he armed?"

"I honestly wouldn't care to bet against that possibility," says Douglas.

"Then what do you propose to do?" 

"Oh," Douglas sighs. "Something stupid."

A few minutes later, he's striding across the tarmac towards the plane, the airfield manager's pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers. It feels terribly alien there, and with every step he takes he sends up a quiet prayer that he won't shoot one of his buttocks off. There are probably more painful ways to go, but he can scarcely think of any less dignified. She'd insisted he take it, but he knows all too well that the chances of him using it successfully are pretty small. If he's clever, though, he won't need it; and if there's one thing he relies on, it's his own cleverness. 

When he reaches the plane, he climbs the stairs and pokes his head into the cabin. The man inside is reading a magazine, and he gets to his feet when he spots Douglas. The two children are still strapped into their seats. Just as before, they don't look up.

"What the hell is taking so long?" the man demands. "The engineers left fifteen minutes ago. You said it was a minor problem. Where is Captain Barrow?"

Douglas clears his throat and pins an apologetic smile to his lips. "Our deepest apologies for the inconvenience," he says. "Actually, Captain Barrow sent me to ask if you'd come have a look at your luggage? It's shifted in the hold, and he's afraid there might be damage."

The man frowns, glancing down at the children. He clenches his fist, obviously caught between a rock and a hard place. Should he stay here and guard these two, or check on the girl in the box?

"The kids will be quite safe here," Douglas suggests silkily. "Or, if you like, I could wait with them…?"

"No." The man frowns, and Douglas congratulates himself quietly. He'd been counting on the man's unwillingness to leave the children alone with a stranger, one who might listen if they asked for help. "They'll stay here. You come with me."

"Of course," says Douglas. He starts back down the stairs, and after a moment he hears the man come up behind him. Douglas's heart is pounding, but he's sure he looks cool as a cucumber from the outside. This is probably one of the few times in his life that being a fantastic liar has aided him in doing a good deed.

"Just in here," says Douglas, leading the man over to the hold door. He raises it a few inches, high enough for the man to climb inside without bumping his head. "As you can see, one of the trunks has slipped free of its restraints. If you'd just ascertain that no harm has been done? I'll wait on you."

With deliberate casualness, Douglas turns his back and takes a few steps away from the door, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. _Nothing suspicious about me,_ his body language says, _I'm just a hardworking pilot, enjoying my smoke break._

He waits until the sound of the man's footsteps have retreated deep into the hold. Then he drops the cigarette, spins on his heel, and slams the hold door shut. He engages the lock, just in time; half a second later the man is there, beating on the door, swearing at the top of his lungs, threatening all manner of dire things. Douglas braces his arms against the side of the plane and lets his head drop, sighing his relief. The mess and bother are just beginning, really, but at least the kids should be safe now. 

Speaking of which. He's got to collect the girl, and the airfield manager, and bring them to the plane. They'll all be far safer there than in the office, especially once he's dragged Julian inside the office and tied him to a chair to await the police. He's looking forward to that. He's looking forward even more to regaling the authorities with tales of his heroism, getting into the papers, being flooded with lucrative job offers from respectable airlines, and drinking a simply enormous amount of scotch to celebrate his victory over the baddies.

Just a little longer, and he'll get there.

*

"I'm guessing from your tone that isn't precisely how it went," says Martin. He's tucked his knees up under his chin, in a disgusting display of the enviable flexibility of unbruised youth. His chin is propped up, and he looks at Douglas with serious, mournful eyes.

"Not really, no," says Douglas. He finishes his tea with a gulp. His head's already beginning to ache from the dehydration. Martin wordlessly pushes his own untouched tea across the table to him, and he takes it gratefully. "Are you quite certain you want to hear this? Because it doesn't get any prettier from here."

"Yes." Martin's tone is steady. "I want to know. Please."

Douglas holds up his mug in mock salute. "To your courage."

*

Julian isn't where Douglas left him. He's nowhere to be seen. 

It's with a sinking heart that Douglas notices the airfield manager's office door is standing wide open. He can't see inside the room but he knows he has to go and look. He doesn't want to look. He wants to go back to the plane and fly far, far away from here. He _resents_ the fact that he can't just do that, cut his losses and obey his instincts for self-preservation. He doesn't even know _why_ he can't, he just…knows that he can't.

At least he has the gun.

Douglas extracts the gun from under his jacket and starts walking toward the open door. It's heavy in his hand, an uncomfortable shape, like it wasn't made for him. He's counting on the sight of it alone to goad Julian into surrendering. If that doesn't work…well. 

Best not to think about it. One step at a time.

When he reaches the office, the first thing he sees is the girl. He barely registers the fact that she's being held tight against Julian's body, his arm pressed against her throat. Douglas sees her face first, that dead, resigned expression in her dark eyes. They seem completely unsurprised. As though she'd never for a second thought things would end any differently, or that Douglas would live up to his implied promise to keep her safe. 

The second thing he notices is the absence of the manager. Then he looks down. She's lying on the floor, a dark stream of blood trickling from her temple. Douglas can't tell whether she's breathing. Either way, she's of no consequence at the moment.

The knife Julian is holding to the girl's throat, however, engages his attention completely.

"Good lord, Douglas." Julian is pale, weaving slightly on his feet, but, typically, he's able to summon a derisive smile. "Where on earth did you get that? Do you even known how to use it?"

Douglas raises the gun level with Julian's head. His hand is sweating so badly he's amazed it doesn't simply slip out of his grip. "Probably not well enough for nuanced work, but I'm fairly certain I can manage to put it to good use at pointblank range. My hand-eye coordination is simply _superb._ "

"You really don't want to do this, my boy."

"No, I really don't," Douglas agrees fervently. "So let's not. Let the child go and bugger off. I won't be chasing you. No, honestly," Douglas assures him, when Julian looks disbelieving. "I think I've been quite dashing enough for one day--freeing the girl, locking your mate up in the hold. I might even get a date out of it, if the woman you bashed on the head lives through the day. Standoffs at high noon really aren't my style."

"I'm glad to hear it," says Julian. "And I'm happy to be on my way. Only the girl will have to go with me. Security, you see. You needn't worry--once I'm a safe distance from here I'll drop her off at a nice farm. With…ponies, or something." He smiles faintly. "Come along, Douglas. Can't say fairer than that."

"You may be shocked to hear this, Julian, but I really don't trust you." Douglas's throat is getting dry. His knees are trembling, and he has a terrible suspicion that he might start crying in a moment. "You don't need the girl, all right? She'll only slow you down. Here." Douglas takes a few steps backward without taking his eyes off Julian. He pulls the desk drawer open and fumbles around until he feels the shape of car keys on a ring. He tosses them and they land on the floor next to Julian's foot. "Transport and everything."

"That's tempting." Julian doesn't even look down at the keys. "But I can't help feeling you've got me boxed in somehow. You're too cool about this by half. What's waiting for me out there?"

"Damn it," says Douglas. He can hear the tremor in his voice, and he supposes there are worse moments it could have intruded. "Just, be reasonable, can't you? I know you don't actually _want_ to hurt the girl! This business is nothing to do with you, you just provide the transport. You don't want blood on your hands, do you?"

"Perhaps not. But I want my blood on your hands even less."

"Fine," Douglas snaps. Moving slowly, he lowers his hand and puts the gun down on the desk. "There, see? Pledge of good faith. Just…let her go, and we'll all walk away, all right?"

For one sweet moment, he thinks it's actually going to work. He can see the fatigue creeping into Julian's expression. They're both in over their heads here, and they both know it. Julian wants a way out, and he's posed to take it. Just a few seconds more, and it will be over-- _please, God, let it be over…_

Later, Douglas will realize his mistake. He'd forgotten almost entirely about the girl. 

He'd forgotten that she didn't speak English, and therefore didn't understand a word he and Julian had been saying to each other. He hadn't even considered what it must have looked liked to her when he put the gun down, as though he and Julian had come to _agreement_ about her, as so many other men had already done. Most importantly, Douglas hadn't been looking at her, so he didn't see the expression on her face.

Not until it was too late. Not until she'd already bit hard into Julian's wrist, and darted for the gun over the sound of his shouting.

Douglas watches, stunned, as the girl wraps her small hand around the heavy grip of the gun. Julian grabs her arm, yanking her backwards, hard, and Douglas leaps forward, meaning to pry her out of his grip. There's a flash of silver from the blade of Julian's knife, a gush of liquid under Douglas's hand. Douglas screams--he meant to scream the girl's name, only to realize that he doesn't even know her name, so all that comes out is some horrid noise, which is swallowed up by the report of the gun. Two shots, he thinks; and then blood, pain, the world spinning before his eyes, Julian's ashen face, the girl falling. Douglas is falling too, Julian is sliding down the wall, a horrible wash of red smearing the white paint behind him. They're all falling and Douglas's world is turning black.

"Fuck," he whispers, dropping to his knees. There's a spreading stain over the breast of the girl's dirty white shirt. Julian is making wet, choking sounds in the corner, but Douglas is sensible of nothing but the searing heat in his own side, and the bright, glassy sheen of the child's eyes. 

Douglas crawls to her, ignoring the agony over his hip. He falls to his knees at the girl's side and presses his hands to the hole in her chest. The bleeding doesn't even slow. If it hurts her, she doesn't show it. 

"Douglas," Julian moans from a few feet away. "Help me!"

Douglas ignores him. He barely even hears him. "You're all right," he says to the child. He speaks softly, in French, so she'll understand. "God, I'm--I'm so sorry, but you're going to be all right now, I promise. I'm going to take care of you. Understand?"

She doesn't speak, but she is looking at him. Not crying out, or reaching for him, or doing anything at all--just watching him watch her die.

"I live in England," he babbles on. "With my wife. You could come and live with us, would you like that? We haven't got any children of our own yet. Or--or I'll find your parents. Whatever you want."

She blinks once, long and slow.

"Look at me, darling," he pleads, frantic. "Here. Look at me. That's right. I'm--I'm Douglas. What about you, what's your name?"

He watches her for a long, long time, but she doesn't answer. She doesn't even blink again.

*

"And the rest of it, you can probably imagine for yourself," says Douglas, barreling on in a fairly normal sort of voice--as though he hasn't just been speaking of atrocities, of lives ruined and ended. "The police came, there was a hell of a stink, although not as much of one as there ought to have been. A lot of it was hushed up, so as not to interfere with ongoing investigations into the trafficking ring they'd all been part of. Julian died, the girl died, and the other two children couldn't tell them much about their captors, I don't think. No one would tell me what happened to them, after." He scratches his eyebrow. "The bloke in the hold was whisked away to a locked room somewhere. Helios went under in a blaze of arrests and ignominy. I came out of it with nothing but a CV that needed dusting off and a really heroic tolerance for Scotch. Honestly, if you'd asked me at any point over the next twenty years, I would have said I barely ever thought about the whole business. Which was accurate, to a point." He looks down at the table. "In a way, I suppose not thinking of it--and not talking about--was most of my problem."

Martin's eyes, when he dares to meet them again, are large, wet-looking--and, damn it all, if the boy starts crying, Douglas is simply going to lose it. "Don't look like that," he says. "Honestly, Martin. It was thirty years ago. I'm fine now. Well." He tilts his head ruefully. "Mostly fine. I'm more concerned with what I'm going to feel like in the morning. I'm too old for hangovers; can't weather them like I could at thirty."

"I'm sorry," says Martin, ignoring all of this. "I'm--I'm honored that you told me. I wish I knew what to say."

"You really don't have to say anything. Just--maybe another cup of tea, if you'd be so kind." Douglas hauls himself up from his chair, relieved to find himself mostly steady on his feet. "I'm going to have a shower, I should probably top my non-ruinous fluids up before I go to bed."

"Yeah, of course," says Martin, also rising.

They both stand there for a moment, just…looking at each other, which is fairly uncomfortable, but Douglas doesn't feel able to turn away. Or perhaps it's just that he doesn't feel he has the right. Having made Martin into a donkey to carry his burdens for him, he probably owes it to him to listen to whatever it is he's obviously working up to say. Douglas just wishes he'd get on with it. He's exhausted. Sick, too, though he doesn't know if that's more to do with the drink or the memories.

"What you were saying earlier," says Martin. "About Helios hiring you for…having 'special qualities.'"

Douglas restrains a wince. Trust Martin to pick up on that. "Yes, I'll admit, that rather stung, in the light of everything that came out. Still, I was young. Everyone's an idiot at that age, or so I hear."

"No, that's not--" Martin's hand darts out. He takes hold of Douglas's wrist, and the weight of his grip is strangely comfortable, anchoring. "I was going to say. I mean. They weren't counting on you, were they? You--you stopped them." He takes a deep breath, and meets Douglas's eyes. His gaze is firm and steady. "They thought they knew what sort of man you were, but…they didn't know you at all."

Douglas opens his mouth. After a long moment, he closes it again, and clears his throat. "Monique."

"What?"

"I asked the other children later. The girl's name was Monique."

Martin's mouth crumples. Then, without warning, he yanks hard against Douglas's arm. Douglas stumbles, gasping, and Martin catches him, his arms tightening around Douglas's shoulders. 

Douglas lets his head fall against Martin's neck and shuts his eyes against the spinning of the world.


End file.
